


Kenny Patrol

by CoffeeStars



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Ace rookies love Kent a lot, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, kenny doesn't care, like nursey patrol but with more taters, secretly married patater, some safety measures for kale parsnip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-07-22 21:56:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7455310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeStars/pseuds/CoffeeStars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Aces love Kent, but taking care of drunk Kenny is kind of like wrestling a sluggish talking cat who has no mouth filter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Kent doesn’t call himself a lightweight, because he’s not. Not really. In fact, after two shots he can claim with so much certainty that he’s had eight shots that even a lie detector would have a difficult time proving him wrong. But that’s mostly because he’s so far gone that he believes literally whatever is coming out of his mouth.  
  
The Aces have Kenny Patrol, to make sure Kent doesn’t make off with someone when he’s far too inebriated, and to make sure that someone doesn’t kidnap their captain and return him with both kidneys missing or something. It used to be Jeff, because he had a soft spot for Kent when he was first drafted, but after five times on Kenny Patrol, which he invented, he realizes that one does not actually want to be on Kenny Patrol for too long. Kent Parson drunk is funny, for sure, and he didn’t even _know_ Kent could drop it that low. But after the dancing (Jeff’s pried Kent off a few people and once had to get in between this really grabby buff dude trying to grind and grope Kent at the same time), all he ever gets is the same story where Kent adopts his cat and almost gets his left cheek clawed off for the first month and a half, when he had been hoping for embarrassing blackmail stories about old hookups or the likes. (Jeff notices that, with each retelling, Kit Purrson’s scratches become more vicious, and Kent gets increasingly weepier: “Jeffffffff, she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Jeff I love her so much she’s so amazing. A queen. Cat royalty. Jefffff—”).  
  
But Jeff is a genius. Jeff decides to make Kenny Patrol seem like an honor and a privilege to the rookies. He says, “Oh man, the last time Parser was drunk, he said some of the craziest shit. Too bad you weren’t there.” There are rookies who idolize Kent fighting for Kenny Patrol that night. He congratulates himself and, after rounding up two of the rookies, Todd and Dom, tells them the steps and rules of Patrolling:

1\. Never let Kent know that Kenny Patrol is a Thing. Stay near him, but not too close, or face the Kenny Wrath if he finds out.  
2\. Two beers = so far so good. Once Kenny is past the two drink threshold, he will begin to dance. Keep an eye on him.  
3\. Kent only gets to Stage Three after he’s all danced out. He will probably be at 4-5 drinks. Time to step in. He will retreat to the bar area and hit on people. Use this opportunity to regroup, meet up, and chat him up.  
  
“The wildest stories,” Jeff promises. “He’ll say anything.” He doesn’t tell them that the _anything_ pertains to cat-related business and only cat business. “And that’s about it. If anything goes wrong, you can always call me. And Parser has most of us on speed dial.” He claps both of them on the back.  
  
The next week, the Aces win against the Falconers with a last second goal. After the screaming and cheering subsides, Jeff comes up behind the two rookies and pats their shoulders.  
  
“Godspeed,” he says like he means it, and skates off.  
  
And then they realize. Tonight they’re going out celebrating. And they’re going to be on Kenny Patrol. They look at Kenny in all his five foot ten glory and shrug at each other. They can do it.  

* * *

In less than 45 minutes, they _almost_ get into a fight trying to maneuver Kenny back to the lounge area. Dom swears up and down that he’s only seen Kent have _one_ appletini the whole time, but they both know he just didn’t want to admit that they lost Kent for 15 of those 45 minutes. As of now, Kent has his arms all over Todd, and it’s right about when he’s saying something or the other about cat food that Todd and Dom knew that Jeff had conned them. 

“Toddy,” Kent is whining. He is also smacking Todd’s chest with every other word. _Why?_ Todd thinks, as he plucks the appletini out of Kent’s hands. “Todd, you were so great today. Incredible. That pass was so great.” He hiccups, then looks up with wide eyes. “Todd, you’re so _great_.”

Todd feels his face getting red, but he pushes it down when he notices Dom giving him the side-eye. “Thanks, Parse,” he says, then adds, because he’s feeling brave, “All because of you.”  
  
Kent’s face is shoved between his collarbone and the chest hitting is slowing down, thank god. “Hey, Toddy,” Kent murmurs in a way that was definitely not a low, sexy purr, “wanna hear a secret?”  
  
Dom looks like he’s about to have a convulsion. Todd sees him biting his lips and snorting like he’s enjoying it, and he vows that next practice he’s going to check Dom into the next dimension.

“Oh,” Todd says to their captain, who’s nosing against his collarbone. Todd digs his fingers into his thigh, because if he gets a boner right now, Dom may actually implode. “Um. Okay?”  
  
Kent tries to pull himself upright and places a hand on Todd’s face to move his ear closer. “I really like tall people,” Kent whispers not very quietly. “I think they’re really hot.”  
  
“Oh. Oh, wow.” What does one say at this point?  
  
“How tall are you?” Kent asks. “Like 6’1?”  
  
“Um, two. 6’2.” _Dear Lord._ _Keep it cool man. It’s just Kent Parson. Captain of the Aces. Stanley Cup winner. His hair is really soft—wait._  
  
“That’s tall,” Kent sighs, and settles into Todd’s arms. Todd prays to whatever deity that’s out there to have mercy and that Kent is too gone to hear his heartbeat trying to crack his ribcage. “Like my potato.”  

 _What._  
  
“Potato?” Dom asks. Todd throws him a dirty look, and Dom ignores him like he hadn’t been trying to scorch the last ten minutes into his memory bank for chirping material.  
  
“Yeah. I was supposed to meet up with him,” Kent admits. “Supposed to go back early, haven’t seen him in forever…” Then he’s digging his pockets for his phone. He smacks his iPhone into Todd’s chest twice after unlocking it. “Call,” he demands, like he is six. “Call my Tayyyyytoooo.”  
  
“Uhhhhh.” Todd scrolls through the contact list. “I can’t find a—do you mean ‘Tater’?”  
  
“That’s what I said. Call!” Two more boob smacks. “Call him!”  
  
“Okay, okay.” Dom gives him a bewildered look, and Todd just throws him back an equally confused one.  
  
“ _Hello? Kenny?_ ” says an accented voice.  
  
“Uh, is this Tater?” Todd begins, but Kent swipes the phone back.  
  
“Alyoooshaaa,” Kent says. “Could you come pick me up? Wanna go home now. Okay. I’m with Toddy and Dom! I’m sorrrrry, I forgot. Are you mad?” Pause. “I can make it up to you.” Another pause. He gives the location of the club, then, “Okay, bye!”  
  
Kent sticks the phone back into his pocket. “He’s coming,” he says simply. Then, “Let me say another thing about Kit…”  
  
Dom rolls his eyes. 

* * *

Todd wasn’t sure what he expected this Tater to look like. A part of him thinks that he was seriously expecting an actual potato to roll up and not like, a real human, because his heart just about stops when he sees Alexei ‘Tater’ Mashkov navigate through the crowd and coming towards the three of them.  
  
Dom, for once, is sitting ramrod straight. “Dude, is that—”  
  
“Tayyyter!” Kent crows, reaching up with grabby fingers. “Taytoe. Tay. Toe. Heh.”  
  
“Hello! Are you Todd and Dom?” Tater booms, all smiles, as he shakes both of their hands. First Todd has Kent draped on his shoulders, and now a Falconer legend is touching him. “Thank you for looking after him. Good game tonight, yes? Played hard, but guess not hard enough!” He turns to Kent and places a glass in his hands. “Drink this, Kenny,” he prompts gently.  
  
“My big Russian stereotype,” Kent slurs, but accepts the drink. “Giving your vodka to me. So generous. I knew you loved me.”  
  
“This is water,” Mashkov replies, just as Kenny downs it and says, “Wow, that’s a stiff drink.”  
  
Two things Todd realizes tonight: one, Mashkov was huge on the ice, but in person, even without the hockey gear, still remains a sizeable opponent. Two, Mashkov and Kent Parson are apparently on friendly enough terms to be on nickname basis.  
  
“I think we are going home, Kenny has enough for now,” Mashkov says as he collects Kent into his arms. He leans in and continues conspiratorially, “Good that he have you two for teammates. Not a lot of people want to be Kenny Patrol.”  
  
“I heard that,” Kent says. Todd and Dom both simultaneously freeze, but then Kent places a huge kiss on Mashkov’s jaw. “You know you’re my Patrol _forever_. Good thing I married you.”  
  
Something in Todd’s brain short-circuits.  
  
“Yes, yes,” Mashkov says fondly. “All yours.”  
  
When they leave, Todd and Dom stare at each other as reality settles back in.  
  
“Holy shit,” Dom breathes, finally. “Kenny Patrol was amazing.”  
  
Todd chugs the rest of Kent’s appletini and silently agrees.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Level 1 Alcohol Kent tells cat stories. Level 2 is flirty Kent. Level 3 is Kent on Viagra. Only Alexei has experienced Level 4, but it was one time and he won't tell anyone about it. Todd gets to Level 3 and he counts that as pretty good for someone who's not actually sleeping with Kent.

A year after Todd meets Alexei Mashkov, Mr. Kent’s Husband, the Aces win the Cup again.  
  
Thirty minutes after they win the Cup, everyone completely forgets that Kenny Patrol is a Thing as they watch Kent get on his knees and chug champagne out of the Cup. You know, because he’s classy.   
  
Two and a half hours later, everyone has relocated to some mansion rental in the hills. Once Todd watched Anastasia on Jeff’s laptop when they were flying back to Vegas (he should’ve questioned why Jeff had it in the first place, but he didn’t and now he knows how to sing _Once Upon a December_ ), and the scene with the ballroom—if the ballroom had three pools and a wicked slide—is the closest approximate to what their rental palace looks like. It’s supposed to be a post-game private party for just the players and their family members who are in town; God knows there’s going to be at least five more when they get back to Vegas, but The Las Vegas Aces PR team does not do things by halves, apparently. It’s got like a million doors and guest bedrooms, and Todd nearly pees his pants trying to find a bathroom.  
  
Luckily, he doesn’t pee his pants, but he does forget which way down the hall he’d come from. He hears vague, muffled laughter from outside, so he assumes that he’ll eventually bump into someone along the way.   
  
He turns a third corner, still giddy and light with victory and a good amount of alcohol in his system, and sees his Captain, sprawled on the marble floor. Todd’s stomach nearly lurches out of his mouth at the sight.  
  
“Holy _shit_ , Parser. What the—weren’t you outside—how did—” He flips Kent over slowly, his face white. Oh God, Jeff’s going to kill him. Everyone’s going to kill him. He’s been on Kenny Patrol over twenty times but Kent has never actually physically collapsed before; that was the whole _point_ of Kenny Patrol. “Oh God, I’m only 22, what do I do—Please don’t be dead. Please don’t—”

To Todd’s relief, Kent makes this ungodly noise as he blearily opens his eyes and squints at Todd. He looks at himself, then at the floor.  
  
“I’m on the floor,” Kent says intelligently.   
  
“Why were you on the floor?” Todd asks, maybe a little too shrilly. “I thought you were _dead.”  
  
_ “I…” Kent furrows his brows, like he’s trying to remember. “I went to take off contacts. Eyes were itchy.” He blinks up at Todd, the whites red and irritated around grey. “And then sit down to sleep. Just a little bit.”  
  
“Are you—are you _serious_?” Todd is trying very hard not to shriek, but leave it to Kent fake-dying to flush out all of his previous inebriation. “Jesus, please—okay. Okay, it might not be my place to say this—oh, fuck it, I’m on Patrol tonight. I say it’s time for you to go home. I can’t have you die near the Cup, that’s _bad luck_ —”   
  
He expects Kent to protest, but Kent only reaches out with both arms, like he wants Todd to pick him up.   
  
“Okay,” Kent agrees simply. “Take me to bed, Alexei.”  
  
“—and I know you want to stay, but—wait, what?”  
  
“Bed,” Kent says, the arms already looping around Todd’s neck like a noose. He also accidentally smacks the side of Todd’s head a couple of times. “Bed, bed, bed—”  
  
That is how Todd carries Kent Parson, Stanley Cup winning champion, to a guest bedroom in a house he’s never been in. He also expects Kent to take a nap when his body hits the mattress, because he’s learned nothing from his fifty times on Patrol.  
  
“I’m gonna go get you some water, don’t move—” Todd hasn’t pushed himself an inch off the bedding when Kent’s leg flies up and pins his left shoulder down, narrowly missing his head by a fraction of a centimeter. Todd has seen that very same leg strapped with skates—he’s pretty sure it can slice a man’s jugular if Kent so wishes, with or without blades equipped, so he freezes immediately. “Uh, Parser—”  
  
“I said,” Kent enunciates slowly, bring his foot down (and Todd along with it), “Take. Me. To Bed. Alexei.”   
  
“Holy fucking shit,” Todd whispers as Kent readjusts himself and drunkenly climbs so he can straddle Todd.   
  
“I can ride you again,” Kent continues, his eyes lidded and his hands grabbing at the lapels of Todd’s shirt. Todd gets this strangest sense of déjà vu, then shakes it off as Kent’s fingers wander south. “I know how much you like that. Or do you want me on—on—” Kent’s expression almost makes it look like he had forgotten where he had been going with it. “—on my knees?” Todd does not whimper when Kent makes this swirling motion with his hips; those were sounds of fear and distress. “I’m gon’ fuck you so good you see fuckin’ _stars_.”  
  
“I’m not Mashkov!” Todd bursts out. When Kent is sober, he’s definitely going to kill Todd. Or, if it doesn’t get to that, and Mashkov somehow hears about this, Todd is probably going to get drop-kicked all the way to Siberia. “It’s me! It’s Todd! Your teammate! Toddy?”  
  
“Nah, you have brown hair,” Kent says, sounding very convinced. Todd realizes belatedly that Kent is very blind at the moment. He vaguely remembers that Kent had thought a lamp was a cat on the way here. “My Tater got brown hair.”  
  
“ _Jeff has brown hair, you sack of shit_.” Todd reaches out and pulls Kent’s shirt back down. “No, no—no naked. Hey, don’t you wanna tell me cat stories? You love telling cat stories. Remember that time Kit threw out, like, seven pairs of your underwear out the window?” Todd knows he sounds like a drowning man desperate for a lifesaver, but Kent’s fuzzy mind is apparently registering none of it.  
  
“Reward,” Kent whines, then starts bouncing up and down, and not even in the sexy way. Kent’s moving  like he’s a five-year-old on a ball. Only he’s not five-years-old, and the ball isn’t a ball but Todd’s dick, half-hard with the friction and probably about to snap off if Kent overdoes it. Todd fears for his dick very much. How does Mashkov deal with Kent all the time? Maybe his dick is plated with steel. Fucking Russians. “Win Cup. You _said_ you would.”  
  
“I’m _not_ Alexei, Goddammit.” He hears Dom laugh in his ear as he bites down his pride, gritting out the stupid-ass nickname Jeff branded him on one unfortunate morning after a slip of the tongue, “It’s…Toady.”  
  
“…Toady?” Kent looks bewildered. He leans down, focusing his gaze, the bouncing pausing momentarily (thankfully). “You’re not Alexei. What the fuck. I knew you felt too skinny.”  
  
“Fuck you, oh my God,” Todd says, sighing in relief as Kent slides off him, face-planting on the sheets ungracefully like he hasn’t been (very poorly) riding Todd like a mechanical bull. “Why am I the one embarrassed when it should be you?”   
  
“Sorry ‘bout that,” Kent says into the pillows, not sounding very sorry at all. “Jus’ miss him a lot.”   
  
“Oh.” He knows Mashkov is still in Providence, and the last time they saw each other had been six weeks ago. If Kent hadn’t been trying to separate his dick from his body two minutes ago, Todd would’ve felt a little bad. But Kent _had_ , so Todd spares a single percentage of guilt for his Captain. “Dude. That sucks.”   
  
“I know.” Kent flips his head over to face Todd, grinning lopsidedly. He looks younger than he is; maybe it’s the hair. Or the eyebrows. Todd may never know. “But hey, we won. Nice job out there tonight.”  
  
“It was a group effort.” The answering smile that Kent flashes him makes him remember why he’d been fascinated with Kent in the first place.   
  
“And thanks, you know, for everything else.” Kent clarifies, to Todd’s shock, “Patrolling, I mean. You didn’t have to do that. You know I don’t do this very often anymore.”   
  
“No problem,” Todd replies lamely, after a few seconds of silence. “You, uh, know about that, too.”  
  
“You and Dom aren’t subtle,” Kent says. “You told me you ordered a rum and coke and I heard Dom tell the bartender to give me a coke with a wedge of lime.”   
  
“Oh.”   
  
“Yeah. It’s cool.” Kent turns slowly on his back and exhales. “I got you and the team watching my back on and off the ice. Really ‘preciate it. I’d do the same for you.” He considers this for a moment, then gestures with his hand. “I _am_ sorry. That I climbed on you.”  
  
To be fair, this isn’t even the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to Todd, but it is a phrase that Todd from a year ago would have never expected to hear his Captain to say to him.   
  
“That’s okay,” Todd says, then turns to his side. “Am I as good looking as Mashkov?”  
  
Kent at least has the decency to make it look like he is thinking about it. “No,” he says, disgruntled. “Now shut the fuck up, I want to nap.”   
  
Todd eventually drags a half-asleep Kent outside, navigating through the ridiculously intricate hallways as he follows the sounds of the commotion to the main patio. He’s about to call a car to ship Kent back to their hotel when he hears noises of confusion. The crowd clears and Mashkov appears in the throng, again, holding flowers and a bottle of wine ( _Oh no_ , Todd thinks). He nudges Kent and ducks to avoid Kent’s nails, ready to rake a line of scratches down his cheek.  
  
“Are we at the hotel—” Kent is still squinting, glasses-less and blurry. “Who the fuck is that?”  
  
“Dude, it’s—”  
  
“Kenny,” Mashkov says, and Kent’s entire face lights up at the familiar tone. “Make rookie go Patrol again?”  
  
“Tater,” Kent breathes, then topples into Mashkov’s waiting arms, because Todd has just realized his hockey career is 80% a Harlequin novel and Mashkov is the handsome, mysterious rival player who shows up at the right time, minus the ripped white shirt. Todd expects nothing less from the Parson-Mashkov family (or was it Mashkov-Parson? Do they even hyphenate?) “You’re not in Providence.”  
  
“Surprise! Husband win or lose Cup, I fly down anyway,” Mashkov says, holding Kent tightly and lifting him off the ground a good three inches. He looks so full of love that it’s adorable and sickening all at once. “Congratulations!”   
   
They kiss under a rain of champagne and pool water, just as Todd anticipates, because they’ve always had to go the extra mile like that. Jeff is screaming somewhere in the distance, “Holy _shit_ , are you fucking _serious?_ Are they—was I the only fucking person who didn’t know?” to a bunch of nodding rookies before he charges at the couple and hugs the air out of them. As Todd settles down in a vacant lounge chair, Dom finds him and throws him a water bottle, which he misses and it hits him square on the chest.   
  
“Ow.”  
  
“Sorry. How did Patrol go?” Dom asks. _That little shit. He knew Kent had needed Patrol._  
  
He watches Kent lean his head on Mashkov’s chest, and Mashkov taking care to not jostle Kent too much as they’re immediately crowded by various Aces and their managers. The Cup sits on an empty spot on the buffet tablet, gleaming as a player desecrates it by filling it with copious amounts of alcohol.  
  
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Todd says, as he twists open the bottle cap.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr at nomorelonelydays! :) All my writings are tagged there.


End file.
